Now We Are Dead

by Stuart MacBride

  Tufty shrugged back. You’re on your own, sunshine.

  Steel poked him on the arm. ‘Sometime today would be good, Constable.’

  Lanky sniffed. ‘It … She still can’t remember anything. Doctors say it’s the trauma.’

  Another poke. ‘Aye, well, you won’t mind if I have a wee chat with her, will you? Maybe she’ll speak to—’

  A voice growled out behind them. Big and extremely hacked off. ‘Detective Sergeant Steel! What exactly do you think you’re doing here?’ DI Vine.

  Oh lovely.

  They were going to get fired for certain now.

  Steel had a sip of her stolen coffee. ‘Needs more sugar.’

  Vine stormed up, dragging his two sidekicks with him in all their silly-haircutted glory. ‘I’m talking to you, Sergeant!’

  Sidekick Number One sniggered.

  ‘Were you, Guv? Sorry, didn’t notice.’ Another sip. ‘DC Quirrel and me were just on our way past and the constable here stopped us to ask a question.’ She stared at Lanky. ‘Didn’t you, Constable?’

  ‘Er … Yes?’

  Vine crossed his arms and loomed. ‘And?’

  ‘Er …’ There was that look again: help me. HELP ME!

  Oh all right, then.

  Tufty stood to attention like a good little boy. ‘He wanted to know about the new minimum sentencing tariffs for possession with intent.’

  ‘Yes. Right. That’s what I was asking! Sentencing tariffs.’

  Steel patted him on the shoulder, then stole his Twix. ‘Glad I could help.’ Before marching off in a hail of clattering boot heels.

  Tufty shared a wee pained smile with Lanky, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’d better … Yeah.’

  Escape!

  Steel waltzed into the CID office, arms out like she was about to bless them all. ‘Davey, my little man, what news from the coalface?’

  The desks were still covered in phone chargers and extension leads, Lund and Harmsworth making calls on other people’s mobiles.

  ‘… Hello? Yes, this is DC Lund, I’m calling about a stolen mobile phone?’

  Harmsworth folded forward and banged his head on the desk. ‘No. No, we don’t want to arrest your neighbour just because he’s English …’

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t steal your phone. This is the police? … That’s right.’

  Barrett pointed at his precious evidence crates. ‘That box are contacted and waiting pickup. That one’s phones we can’t unlock. And that—’

  ‘Yeah, blah, blah, blah.’ Steel hauled up her trousers. ‘What about my look-out request on Philip Dog-Murdering-Fudgemonkey Innes?’

  He checked his clipboard. ‘They’re still looking. And “fudgemonkey” was yesterday. Today we’re saying “felchbunny” for bad stuff, or “sproing!” if it’s good.’

  ‘Hmph, takes all sorts.’

  Another thump as Harmsworth dunted his head off the desk again. ‘Because I’m calling about your mobile phone, remember? … No.’

  Steel settled on the edge of her desk. ‘Chase up the look-out. And remind me to check in on Agnes Galloway too. Make sure she’s doing OK.’

  Barrett made a note. ‘Are you remembering DCI Rutherford?’

  Yet another thump. ‘Because being English isn’t a crime, that’s why!’

  ‘Don’t spoil my good mood, eh, Davey? Who’s in charge of working girls these days?’

  ‘DI Beattie’s team.’

  Steel groaned. ‘God help us.’

  ‘Look, do you want this phone back or not?’

  Barrett checked his clipboard again. ‘Oh, and Tufty? A PC Mackintosh came past wanting to talk about some Yorkshire terrier’s funeral arrangements?’

  Steel nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. ‘She’s a bit of a hottie too. Nurses and Wildlife Crime Officers chasing after you? You’re like ugly catnip for short-sighted women.’

  Tufty beamed. ‘I has a popular!’

  ‘Aye, well, there’s no accounting for taste. Now get your arse on those phones, I want as many of them reunited with their rightful owners as possible before I have to brave DCI Rutherford and his Horrible Meeting of Doom.’

  You could tell a lot about a police officer by looking at their office. Which was why Detective Inspector Beattie’s office was a complete and utter craphole. Piles of paperwork on the desk. Piles of paperwork on the floor. Piles of paperwork on the filing cabinets. Evidence bags heaped on top of the piles of paperwork on the filing cabinets. A whiteboard solid with scribbled stuff. And sitting behind the desk, five-foot-eight of pure useless in a saggy suit. Biscuit crumbs mixed with beardy dandruff all down the front of his off-grey shirt. What was probably egg yolk on his brown tie.

  He was on the phone, one hand scrunched over his eyes as Roberta barged in. ‘I don’t care … Do I look like I care? No … No, because I don’t. Now get your finger out!’ Beattie looked up as Roberta collapsed into the only visitors’ chair no’ covered in crap. Scowled and hung up. ‘You’re supposed to knock. And if this is about that sponsored swim, I’m skint, OK?’

  Rude little fudgemonkey.

  She stretched out her legs, hands linked behind her head. ‘You’re in charge of the Prozzie Patrol, Beardie. I need details on two of your congregation: Daphne McClellan and Sally Gray. And a cuppa wouldn’t go amiss either.’

  His face darkened. ‘I do not make tea for sergeants, Sergeant.’

  Roberta let her smile grow cold. Stared right back.

  He held her gaze for a couple of beats – three seconds tops – before looking away. Then stood and rifled through a filing cabinet. ‘Daphne McClellan; AKA: Daphne Macintyre; AKA: Natasha Sparkles, back when she was lap-dancing at Secret Service.’ He pulled out a file and held it out.

  She stayed where she was, hands behind her head.

  Beattie shuffled forward and placed it in her lap. Then went back to the files. ‘Sally Gray, AKA: Sally Anderson. Moved over here from Northern Ireland in the noughties.’ He pulled out another file. ‘Just bring them back when you’ve finished.’

  Had to hand it to the useless hairy wee lump – he IDed both girls off the top of his head. Didn’t mean she was letting him get away with that ‘I don’t make tea for sergeants’ dig, though.

  She nodded at the files. ‘Why don’t you summarise them for me.’

  A blush reddened the skin beneath the beard. Beattie gathered up both files and scampered back to the safety of his desk. Clearing his throat as he flicked through them. ‘Pretty much identical. Form for soliciting, possession, assault, shoplifting … Social services. Methadone. Relapse. Possession again. And again. And again. Public urination …’ A sigh. ‘If it wasn’t for the drugs, maybe? But life’s not like that for these girls.’

  ‘What about kids?’

  Beattie checked the files again. ‘Sally’s got four. Two in care. Daphne has three: they stay with her mother in Stonehaven.’

  Aye right.

  Roberta had a dig at her underwire. How come no bugger could make a bra that fitted properly? Wasn’t as if boobs were a new invention. ‘We picked up two wee kids at Kenny Milne’s house, day before yesterday. Kenny says they’re Daphne and Sally’s. He’s been training them up Fagin-style and—’

  The office door battered open and a PC scuttered into the room, nearly colliding with a pile of boxes. He was far too young to be shaving, never mind wear a police uniform. A tenner said he couldn’t get served in a pub. Probably didn’t even have pubes yet. He completely ignored Beattie, which was nice, and turned to Roberta instead. Face all shiny, breathing like a pervert in a changing room. ‘Sergeant … Sergeant Steel? … The DCI’s … looking for you … and … and he’s … I mean a hundred percent right now.’

  Pff …

  Ah well, better get it over with.

  And hopefully, by now, the team had been in touch with enough stolen-phone owners to make DCI Rutherford shut up about his stupid press conference.

  She creaked to her feet. ‘Thanks for the info, Beardie
. Get some biscuits in for next time, though, eh?’ She poked the panting PC. ‘Come on then, sweaty, don’t want to keep the big man waiting, do we? He might blame you.’

  The nervous, sweaty wee PC hopped from one foot to the other as Roberta pushed through into the CID office. ‘He really did say it was urgent!’

  ‘Blah, blah, blah.’ She frowned. ‘Where’s everyone gone?’

  The only person in the room was Tufty, with his stupid gauze and stupider black eye. He tossed a re-boxed phone into the crate marked ‘CAN’T UNLOCK’. ‘Harmsworth was moaning so much that Lund wheeched him off for a cup of tea and a Wagon Wheel. Barrett’s taking the latest batch of mobiles down to Lost-and-Found for collection. And I am working away like the brave little soldier I am.’

  ‘I mean, really, really, really urgent!’

  She sighed. ‘Everyone with a pip on their shoulder says it’s urgent. Whatever they want, they want it now. Does them good to wait for it every now and then.’ She pointed at Tufty. ‘Did Barrett leave his Blessed Clipboard of all Knowledge?’

  Tufty nodded. ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘Good: grab it and follow me. You can pretend to know what you’re talking about when the DCI starts asking questions about all the mobile phones we’ve returned.’

  The nervous, sweaty, wee PC’s bottom lip was trembling. ‘Please?’

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’ She shoved him towards the door. ‘Honestly, you’re panicking over nothing. It’s just a wee meeting. Nothing to worry about.’

  Nothing to worry about at all.

  The sweaty wee PC opened the meeting room door and Roberta sauntered in, hands in her pockets. Be nice to get a pat on the back for a …

  She stopped.

  Sodding cockwombling hell.

  Jack Wallace was in here, sitting at the oval meeting table right next to Hissing Sid. The lawyer’s suit probably cost more than Roberta made in a month, grey and well cut, a scarlet hankie poking out of the top pocket, matching silk tie. Grey hair swept back from a high forehead. A nose that never really went straight again after getting broken.

  Which, incidentally, was a magnificent highlight of an otherwise miserable year. And all caught on camera too.

  Wonder if the footage was still on her hard drive somewhere? Hadn’t watched it in ages.

  Anyway … What the hell were Tweedle Rape and Tweedle Sleaze doing here?

  DCI Rutherford had the head of the table, jaw clenched, little twitchy bit going at the side of one eye. No’ a happy Weeble. The dick Vine was in the seat beside him, looking smug and vindictive all at the same time.

  Sod.

  She slumped down into one of the spare chairs. ‘Sorry we’re late, Boss, Constable Quirrel had a bit of a dizzy turn, but he’s all right now. Aren’t you, Tufty?’

  Tufty nodded, retreating behind Barrett’s clipboard as if that would save him. ‘Yes, Sarge. Thank you, Sarge.’

  Rutherford didn’t even look at him. ‘Mr Wallace is here with his legal representative. But then you know Mr Moir-Farquharson, don’t you, Sergeant?’

  She gave Hissing Sid a wee wave. ‘Sandy. You here to get this raping scumbag off?’

  That got her a thin smile. ‘I don’t remember you being quite so hostile when I was representing you, Sergeant Steel.’ He held up a hand. ‘If we can take the righteous indignation and acerbic banter as read, please, some of us have other appointments.’

  Dirty wee fudgemonkey.

  ‘Now: to business.’ He took the top off a fountain pen and laid it next to a leather-bound notebook. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Rutherford, my client is aware that a number of your officers erroneously consider the unfortunate attack on that young lady in Victoria Park yesterday to be his fault. He is here to assure you that it was not.’

  The raping wee scumbag shook his head. ‘Wasn’t me.’

  ‘And, as your officers have a rather unsavoury track record when it comes to framing my client for crimes he didn’t commit, we’re rather keen to make sure that doesn’t happen in this instance.’

  Wallace did his best to look sympathetic. It was like watching a dog hump a pillow. ‘When was this poor woman raped? Between nine and midnight, wasn’t it?’

  Silence.

  He shrugged. ‘Cos I was at the pictures with friends.’

  ‘Oh aye?’ Roberta gave him the ‘that’ll be shining’ stare. ‘And you can prove that, can you?’

  Hissing Sid opened his briefcase. ‘Indeed we can, Sergeant.’ He pulled out a slimline laptop that binged into life at the press of a button. Twisted it around so the screen faced out into the room. Then reached over and pressed a key.

  The screen filled with four sets of security camera footage – all different views of a shopping centre. Union Square from the look of it. No sound, just pictures.

  Window Number One: upper level of the car park. Wallace and two blokes were getting out of a Range Rover, laughing. One of them, the fat bald one, pointed a fist at the car and the lights flashed.

  They walked towards the exit.

  But Wallace stopped, turned, looked right into the security camera and waved.

  A line of text at the bottom of the window displayed yesterday’s date and a timestamp that ticked through the seconds as the footage played, ‘18:28:40’.

  Window Number Two: upper concourse. The same three men wandered past a line of restaurants and into the cinema. More laughter. Wallace waved at the camera again.

  ‘18:30:16’.

  Window Number Three: cinema lobby. They walked up to a man standing at a wee podium in front of the doors to the screens and handed over their tickets. Then disappeared through the doors. A small pause, then Wallace popped back into the lobby, smiled and waved at the camera. ‘18:31:25’.

  Window Number Four: the same view as Number Three, only this time the timestamp read ‘21:55:04’. A crowd of people surged out through the double doors: laughing, shoving. Wallace stopped right in the middle of the flow, forcing people to walk around him. He looked right at the camera again, smiled and waved.

  Hissing Sid pressed a key, freezing all the windows. ‘As you can see from the timestamps, my client was nowhere near Victoria Park at the time of the attack. You are, of course, welcome to examine the footage for yourselves. It will only confirm what we’ve told you.’

  DI Vine poked a finger at his notes. ‘I’ve looked into it and the Union Square footage is correct. We’ve got witnesses confirming that Mr Wallace remained in the cinema for the duration of the film—’

  A nod from Wallace. ‘All three hours of it.’

  ‘—and then went to Frankie and Benny’s for several drinks and dinner. They left when it closed at eleven and went to the Secret Service gentlemen’s club on Windmill Brae till one a.m.’

  ‘Yeah, and I went home with one of the dancers, didn’t I? Kept me up all night. Haven’t got any CCTV of that though.’ He winked at Roberta. ‘Sorry. Know you’ve got a thing for dirty pictures.’

  Hissing Sid placed a sheet of paper on the table. ‘I have here a sworn statement from the young lady in question, a Miss Strawberry Jane.’

  Vine poked his notes again. Dick. ‘Do you understand, Detective Sergeant Steel?’

  Ooh … It was like squeezing out a pineapple suppository.

  She gritted her teeth and pushed. ‘Yes, Guv.’

  ‘Good.’ Wallace spread his hands on the table, leaning forward. Oh, look at me, I’m so concerned. ‘I have nothing but sympathy for this poor woman. I hope you do everything in your power to catch the monster who did this.’

  And how the hell were they supposed to do that when the monster was sitting right there in front of them with an airtight alibi?

  III

  Yeah, that wasn’t awkward, was it? Watching Steel eating a dirty big jobbie sandwich and having to pretend it tasted lovely. No prizes for guessing who she’d take it out on either. Him. Muggins. Alas, poor Tufty! I knew him, Horatio …

  He huffed out a breath.

  Look
at her, sitting there, fuming like an undersea vent as the meeting broke up.

  DCI Rutherford was talking to the lawyer, Moir-Farquharson, the pair of them keeping their voices down – so probably up to something. Going by the body language, Rutherford was begging not to be kicked in the crotch again.

  The nervous little PC who’d fetched Steel from the CID office shifted against the wall next to Tufty. ‘It wasn’t my fault she wouldn’t come when I said.’ He blinked watery eyes. ‘You’ll tell them that, won’t you? It wasn’t my fault? I didn’t …’ His mouth snapped shut as DI Vine approached. Stood to attention. ‘Boss.’

  Vine ignored him. ‘Detective Constable Quirrel. How’s the head?’

  ‘Bit rattly at the time, but OK now, Guv.’

  There was a pause as Vine stared at PC Weenie. ‘Don’t you have some work to do, Constable?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ He scurried off.

  ‘Should think so too.’ Vine lowered his voice and leant back against the wall beside Tufty. Nodded at Steel. ‘That, right there, is a disaster waiting to happen.’

  She was sitting on her own, still chewing on a wasp, glowering at Wallace’s lawyer.

  ‘A land mine. A tripwire.’

  Wallace got up from the table and wandered round to where Steel was sitting.

  ‘An unexploded bomb. And if you’re standing too close to it …’ Vine mimed an explosion, mouthing the word ‘Boooooom.’

  Wallace stuck out his hand and, when Steel refused to shake it, he leaned in and said something to her. Something too quiet to hear from here. But from the expression on Steel’s face, whatever the something was, it wasn’t very nice.

  Vine pulled his chin up. ‘I was impressed by your work on the Blackburn Onanist case, Constable Quirrel – figuring out the shift patterns like that. Other teams had been trying for weeks and got nowhere.’

  ‘Thanks, Guv.’ Playing it cool. But deep inside? Totally woot!

  Nice to be appreciated for a change.

  Steel flinched, but Wallace kept talking.

  One of Vine’s hands thumped down on Tufty’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘DS Steel might not be with us for that much longer. And when she goes, I want you to come work for me.’ He gave Tufty a little shoogle. ‘Put that brain of yours to work in a decent team for a change.’